


The Rose Abbey

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-20
Updated: 2005-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 07:02:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1637936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A slashy retelling of Hans Christian Andersen's "The Nightingale."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rose Abbey

**Author's Note:**

> Written for lisan

 

 

Heallstede Abbey--now known as The Rose Abbey--was legendary not only for the remarkable profusion of those blooms after which it was newly named, but also for the perfection that had become a significant thread in the tapestry of daily life there. Colors were always vibrant, textures were always rich, sounds were always sweet and pleasant, and with the unspotted, unclouded charm that perpetual beauty had cast, all those who lived in the old, transformed abbey were quite pleased with life there.

The nobleman, a baron, who lived within the fabled walls, led an unhappy life up to that time. He was forced to ride off to war in defense of the crown at a young age, and with it the dreadful spectacle of friends and comrades falling at his side, while those who survived were maimed or were incurably ill or suffered terrible scars that dug deeply into their minds and hearts. He won the hand of an impoverished peer's youngest daughter in marriage, only to lose his beloved wife to a lingering illness not two years after their vows. He walked the streets of cities, towns, and villages all over the world, his heart weighing more and more heavily every time, for he saw nothing but misery and want that even the greatest monarch couldn't even fix. He learned how transient life and beauty could be, despairing at the way Fortune capriciously took what was good and lovely without a recognizable pattern, leaving the world bereft of too many things far too soon while allowing ugliness to remain and fester.

And finally, older, weathered, and disappointed, he took his son and withdrew to his inherited retreat--an old abbey granted to an ancestor by the reigning monarch, perched atop a low hill and surrounded by an infinity of lush, green countryside. There he began several years' work of fixing the dilapidated structure and creating a world he wished for the child, sparing no expense in hiring the best gardeners, painters, carpenters, blacksmiths, among others, till little by little, the Rose Abbey came to being--so designed in honor of his deceased bride, to whom he remained fiercely devoted. And once the work was completed, the doors were quietly shut against the world, and pain, sorrow, and need were kept away.

So Edmund, the baron's son, grew up surrounded by his mother's favorite flowers and his father's melancholy disillusion. Everywhere he looked, he saw nothing but beauty and symmetry. He breathed in the aroma of lush roses in full bloom. He heard nothing but birdsong, and even rain and snow were welcome deviations from the brilliance of spring and the warmth of summer. No matter what the weather, the child was always seen to wander through the abbey grounds, delighting in perfection as his father had long hoped.

The boy's education was also carefully shaped, with tutors receiving the strictest orders to provide Edmund with not much more than general facts about the world, for the child, the baron noted, had no need for more than what was basic and practical. Peace ruled the land, and he wasn't expected to ride off to battle as his father was a long time ago. The family enjoyed great wealth, and with it came everything Edmund needed, thereby negating any desire to venture forth into the world.

"Our master has gone mad," the gardeners whispered among themselves, shaking their heads in pity as they watched the baron walk with the boy through the trees and shrubbery--a tall, somber shadow in black velvet robes who spoke gently and lovingly, what little joy he had now centered on his young heir.

"Let's hope that the young master inherits better sense."

"Nay, higher spirits!"

Having received nothing but good treatment from the nobleman, however, they chose to stop all dour conversation about their employer right there. To be sure, they felt mostly pity for the man, not rancor, and they did what they could to provide him with their best efforts when called upon.

In the meantime, Edmund grew up a fine lad--untouched by the world, his heart light, his temper balanced, his mind equipped with all sorts of blandly unarguable, practical things that made decisions come easily to him. But he was quite the charmer in his own right though he might be more ignorant than the head cook on certain matters. He was taught to care for little else but what surrounded him within the abbey walls and the colorful rose vines that crept over their stony surfaces. Thus he conducted himself accordingly.

His protection showed itself physically as well, and the boy earned himself several admiring glances among the humbler abbey residents, his virtues discussed and universally acknowledged in respectful whispers.

"What a pretty fellow he is!" the servant-girls noted, to which their elders agreed but with stern reminders of misplaced ambition. So it was that they would stand apart from their young master and simply follow him around with woeful gazes and later on huddle together in the darkness of their shared bedroom and invent wonderful little adventures for him and each of themselves.

"He's good-looking, to be sure," the youths would sulk, "but there's something wanting in him still." When pressed, they were unable to say more, being unclear on what, exactly, it was they found deficient in him.

"Indeed, I think he's simply too perfect!" some would claim.

"Too untouched!" others would quickly add.

The head gardener, who was terribly fond of the boy, shook his head sadly and observed, "He's no better than a fine glass figurine that's been molded in too perfect a shape. Too much symmetry isn't always a good thing."

But their opinions were always kept from their employer out of love for him and an unspoken fear of being flung out of the abbey and into the uncertainties of the world beyond.

One spring morning, the boy, bored with his daily lessons, was overcome by restlessness and so thought to slip past his tutor's nets and wander into those parts of the abbey grounds where the servants frequented. They had their respective accommodations, of course, but they were also given a patch of the extensive gardens for their enjoyment. To that little sanctuary they repaired, and there they rested their weary limbs and rejuvenated themselves with the same sources of pleasure Edmund himself had always enjoyed. Stretched out on the thick grass, wandering idly through the little paths lined with rosebushes, or sitting under the branches of tall trees, the servants would listen to the birds, hold cheerful conversations among themselves, or simply enjoy the tranquility of their surroundings.

Edmund had been there before--several times in the past during bouts of restlessness such as this. He'd learned to expect a chorus of uncouth voices raised in laughter or conversation here and there. But as he walked through the labyrinthine gravel paths, admiring the brilliant blooms that flanked them, he heard someone singing instead, and he stopped in his tracks. It wasn't that he'd never heard of songs before; on the contrary, he'd been immersed in all sorts of music, both vocal and otherwise. But in all those moments, he was given nothing but the sweetest and most cheerful songs to enjoy--full of endless hope and promises of the moon and the stars, of laughter and of fond embraces, of friends and of lovers, of devotion that withstood the test of time. And all of them were performed for him within the gilded and velvet-draped walls of the abbey's music hall.

The boy listened carefully and held his breath. Someone was singing, and his voice was exquisite--alternately soft and fiery, full of passion and life, boundless in its energy unlike the sweeter and more sedate songs that had long been part of Edmund's education. He felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle, his blood turn cold and then hot. With every high note that soared, Edmund's very core shook with unfamiliar pleasure. With every melancholy dip, the boy felt tears gather in his eyes. He heard the words too well, and they struck him like several knife points into his breast, for they exalted something unknown to him--the darker sides of life and love, the desolation of a solitary creature, the happiness that was so dearly bought.

Eventually the voice stopped singing, and awareness crept back into Edmund's consciousness. He cautiously moved forward and searched the area for the source of this unexpected awakening, his hands trembling as he pushed branches aside.

"Is he someone who's come to sing for us tonight?" he asked himself. "He must be a marvel to look at."

He presently reached a little open area where the trees stood apart, a patch of grass dotted with stray leaves and rose petals that had been blown off the surrounding bushes. Astonished, he peered out from behind a tree and stared at another youth who was, to his disappointment, quite shabbily dressed. His clothes had suffered much wear and toil, their colors having faded to dull hues (most of which looked no differently from each other). Dried mud caked a good deal of his legs, boots, and cloak. His plumed hat--which must have looked quite smart once upon a time--drooped over his head in a sad, lifeless, colorless mass.

Dust powdered the youth's golden curls and his lightly tanned complexion. He lay stretched on the grass, his hands behind his head, his feet crossed at the ankles. His eyes were closed as he faced the sky, and he was humming quietly to himself.

"A wanderer?" Edmund muttered, frowning. "Father wouldn't have let him in, looking like this. Tsk. Such a dreadful spectacle he makes of himself. Who allowed him to be so free with the garden, I wonder?"

The boy resolved to tell his father of this unusual encroacher, but the stranger burst into song once again, and Edmund found that he couldn't pull away. He leaned against the tree, stunned into silence, almost horrified at the pictures that were now swimming in his mind and the strange discomfort that had been stirred within his breast. The images in his head were vividly drawn--harsh colors outlined by harsh lines, bursting with life and motion, with the most exquisite sweetness and the most dreadful ache--and they left him dizzy yet spellbound, hopelessly captivated by the discordance that had always been a stranger to him till now.

His body responded as well, for the music seemed to touch him with airy fingers of its own, stroking his cheeks and his short, dark hair, sweeping down his pale neck, brushing his spotless hands, at times clasping him in an embrace, at times repelling him with a push. Once a stranger to these sensations, he fought against them and yet sought them out, almost meek in his wish to endure more of this strange pleasure. He finally closed his eyes--exhausted, bewildered, hopelessly ensnared--and simply listened.

"There's plenty of room for one more here, young master, unless you prefer to lurk among the trees like a terrified fairy," the wanderer suddenly declared with a small laugh. The song was cut short, and the charm was lifted.

Edmund gave a start and passed a hand over fogged, gray eyes as though to clear their vision. "I was on my way back to my home. I don't care to tarry," he replied.

The stranger opened his eyes (were they ever shut?) and regarded him with an arch smile. "You take very slow steps, I see."

"Did my father hire you to sing for us tonight?" Edmund demanded, suddenly emboldened. He stepped forward from the shadows of the trees and stood before the dusty, supine youth, eyeing him curiously.

"No. My songs, I understand, aren't fit for your father's halls. Don't be alarmed. I'm familiar with your history and have been here to visit before. I'm the brother of one of your kitchen maids, just come back from my wanderings. I'm what you'd call a minstrel if you aren't familiar with my sort."

"You look terrible."

The minstrel stood up, laughing. His hat had fallen off, so he stooped down and picked it up, dusting it carelessly and ruining its shape even further. He secured it back on his head, again unmindful of its placement and appearance, for the worn thing draped over vibrant curls in a dirt-encrusted lump. Then he regarded his young host with an air of arrogant ease, cocking his head and resting his hands on his hips.

"And you look woefully unspoiled," he said. "But I do have the advantage of poverty and two years of life over you. I'm afraid I'll always come out unpalatably hardened in your eyes."

Edmund huffed. "You, poor? And a relation of someone in my father's employ? What! Your sister's always been well provided for! She can tell you that, herself, if you bothered to ask. And I see nothing wrong in being sixteen."

"Then my sister's far more fortunate than I." But the minstrel's easy manner softened at Edmund's words, and he smiled with more friendliness than mockery at the boy. "You may call me Matthew, young master. And if you wish to hear more of the songs I've collected in my travels, I'll be honored to share them with you."

"Will you not sing for us tonight? We have a concert planned in the music hall."

"I'm afraid not. My songs are songs of the world, not your father's sanctuary. None of them is meant to charm or transport--only speak of the truth, beauty or no."

Edmund fell silent and glanced in the direction of the tall, rose-covered walls. "Is there beauty outside then?"

"If you've been listening to me sing for the last several minutes, you'll know the answer to your question."

"Your songs were confusing--and painful to hear."

Matthew chuckled. "And you dislike them then?"

"Well--I like them, and I hate them. They're not like the songs we listen to in Father's music hall, where everything's beautiful in a quiet sort of way, and I'm always comforted and pleased. I can't stand to listen to your songs for two minutes together, but I feel like I have to hear more."

"Very well then! I'm here for the week with the housekeeper's permission, and I'll gladly sing to you if you condescend to honor me with your company, young master. You'll always find me here, not inside. Indeed, abbey walls can't hold me. I'm not one for cages, as you can see." Here Matthew made a sweeping gesture down, indicating his soiled and tattered state. Then he bowed grandly, and Edmund turned and hurried off, slipping past his tutor's nets once again and pretending studiousness in the baron's library though his mind was firmly fixed elsewhere.

His distraction lingered through the evening, during his father's concert. Dressed in his finery and flanked by noble guests from nearby counties, Edmund was the picture of refinement and privilege. But if one were to look closely enough, he'd find the vaguest shadow dimming the boy's calm gaze, the slightest crease marring his smooth brows, the faintest tensing of his mouth as he struggled against the dissatisfaction that had been simmering quietly since that morning.

"The music's too sedate," he observed, shifting restlessly in his chair. "Why won't it soar?" He'd hoped to experience a rousing of his senses that was similar to the phantasmagoric moment that had overwhelmed him while listening to Matthew's songs. But even with the finely-tuned instruments and the perfectly trained singers, the boy felt something like constraint in the music. There were walls, he thought, that were built around each song, and those walls prevented such wonderful artistry from reaching farther out to lesser known territories--yes, even those that would normally have terrified him.

There was symmetry in the melody, and there was symmetry in the songs' words. Edmund listened to perfection all evening long--perfect happiness, perfect love, perfect beauty, perfect balance. One song seemed to melt smoothly into the next, and this went on throughout the concert till the boy sat, utterly confounded, not quite knowing where each song began and ended, for in time, they all sounded like each other. Only thirty minutes into the concert, and he was aching to flee the music hall, desperate for something with which to ease the dullness that was closely following the steps of unrest.

He bore it as best as he could, however, and begged an early night from his father, claiming a slight headache (which was, unfortunately, true). And in the familiar comfort of his bedroom, Edmund sat by the open window and stared into the darkness beyond the beautified walls of his father's abbey. He didn't understand what was happening to him; what he did know was that something had changed all of a sudden, and he didn't quite know what to do.

And when the luxurious scent of roses wafted into the room, carried there by the warm evening breeze, Edmund reflexively shrank away from it, for it seemed to be a bit overpowering an aroma though he'd long been familiar with these nightly fragrances before, eagerly breathing them in as a way of rejuvenating himself after a long day. And so the boy retired for the night--curiously saddened.

For the next several days till the end of Matthew's brief (too brief, Edmund was quick to note) visit, Edmund would wander off to the servants' garden in search of his new friend, who was never in the same place at any given time. It was an ongoing hunt that would have tried the boy's patience were he not so entranced by Matthew's voice, which he used to direct his steps to the minstrel's side.

"A delightful little game, is it not?" Matthew asked cheerfully as Edmund finally stumbled into a small clearing, where the minstrel had settled himself with a loaf of freshly baked bread and a flask of wine.

"I don't care for chases like this, but I suppose I have no choice in these matters," Edmund replied a little sullenly as he brushed stray leaves and twigs off his clothes. Then he sat himself down before his strange friend and produced a small velvet pouch, which jingled lightly when he set it down on the grass. "I brought coins with me," he continued. "It's only right that I pay you for your trouble."

"Are these coins yours, young master, or are they your father's?"

Edmund fell silent, suddenly ashamed, for he'd taken the coins from his father's room--something he'd never done before and certainly something he never thought he'd ever stoop to. He didn't know why he was so overcome with a compulsion to reward the minstrel enough to keep him there, let alone resort to such shocking measures to ensure Matthew's gratitude and obligation.

The minstrel read the grief and the guilt on his face and gently placed the little velvet pouch back into his hands. "I've no need for your father's money," he said.

"But you must get something back for your pains!"

Matthew shook his head and smiled. "You're willing to listen to a dusty, ragged minstrel who barters songs for bread. That's a good enough reward, young master."

Then, drawing his knees to his chest, he began his little concert and sang a series of the most remarkable songs that Edmund had ever heard--songs that were made all the more beautiful by the threads of sadness and hope that were tightly woven together--songs shaped by years on endless roads and a vagabond's life, where necessity and luxury were made all the more stark, and humanity provided an infinite source of joy and despair, from which was born a certain wisdom that could never be equaled.

The boy listened, awestruck and profoundly moved by such wildly diverging images conjured up by the strange music in his mind. His stomach tightened, his breath hitching in his throat with every soaring measure of notes, and his heart ached with the sweetest pain imaginable as little by little, his childhood was stripped from him. Gently yet relentlessly was his carefully sustained ignorance overpowered by the world beyond the abbey and its protective roses.

Matthew ended his private concert before long, and he leaned forward, reaching out to trail a finger up Edmund's cheek. He pulled away, his finger still lifted, revealing moisture that was gathered on its tip. He smiled fondly at his young audience and said, "It's this that compensates me for my trouble. I don't care for your father's wealth. That I touched your heart with my music is the greatest reward a lowly minstrel can ever hope to receive from you."

Then he offered his ragged handkerchief with which to dry Edmund's tears.

And so, while Edmund continued his uninspired education with his tutors in the morning, he also sought to counter its bland safety with Matthew's riskier and worldlier offerings in the afternoon. He marveled--rather self-consciously, at that--at the way he'd attached himself so easily to the remarkable youth in a short amount of time, given the disparity of their natures. But as such, he also learned that some mysteries were better left unsolved, and he was quite happy to let things be.

On his final day at the abbey, Matthew crossed paths with the baron while the latter inspected the gardens, the head gardener in tow. The old man regarded him in no small surprise as the youth saluted him with a respectful bow--a surprise which immediately turned to distress when he saw bread and fruit wrapped in an old shirt he recognized as Edmund's cradled in the minstrel's arms. He understood well enough, and his heart broke when realization finally claimed him, turning his blood cold. It was no wonder, he thought, that his son had grown quiet and pensive lately, his attention clearly divided as he sat through his lessons, his meals, and the recent concerts he used to enjoy. Edmund had grown restless and was often found sitting by his window, staring thoughtfully out. There was now no doubt in the nobleman's mind that the boy wasn't simply admiring the lovely little sanctuary his father had created specifically for him as he gazed out from the comfort of his bedroom. Those calm, twilit eyes of his were assuredly fixed on the distant horizon, exploring what they could of the world past the rose-covered walls.

"Young man," he said, "it would be kindness on your part to take to the road and to keep moving forward."

Matthew inclined his head. "Fortune dictates where I go," he replied proudly. "I've long learned that one should never be too exacting in the way he shapes his life."

"And I've learned that one should never be thoughtlessly subservient to Fortune."

After he spoke, the baron stepped aside and watched Matthew--now dressed in clean and mended clothes and armed with his little harp and Edmund's gifts of food--walk through the abbey gates and take up the familiar dusty road that led wanderers far, far from the lonely hill. That evening he watched his son sit through another concert--despondent and inattentive--and he retired that night, grieving over years of fool's hope.

Edmund, in the meantime, had grown almost feverish in his desire to learn more about the world, his thirst for knowledge consuming him completely. He began to spend a great deal of time in his father's library, pulling book after book out--only to fling the volumes aside when he discovered that they were carefully chosen titles that added nothing to what he already knew. He argued with his tutors, insisting that they tell him more--at times willfully contradicting them if only to press them into risking more information. But they remained true to their employer's wishes, and they fought tirelessly against his increasing petulance till the boy had no other recourse but to sink into gloomy silence in the schoolroom--more dissatisfied, more restless.

He turned to the servants with questions, his face burning with shame at his own ignorance, but they shrank from his demands, being terrified by his father's wrath should he discover their broken oaths to protect the boy. He met with visiting musicians before their performances to beg for different songs from them, but they were paid by his father to sing anything that was pretty, balanced, and constrained and so took no heed of the persistent lad though they pitied him. At times they tried to soften his disappointment by throwing in lively melodies that were known to entertain young listeners, but he found them sounding no differently from all the other songs they performed. He yearned for passion but got nothing more than the repetition and symmetry that formed the golden bars of his rose-covered cage.

"If no one wishes to teach me anything, I'll have to run away and learn what I need to know on my own," he said one day.

The boy waited for the right moment, throwing a cloak around his shoulders and taking what food he could from the cupboards, wrapping the small loaf of bread in clean rags. And when the moon was high enough, he hurried to the eastern wall and carefully scaled it though the rose vines tore at his hands and his clothes, and he was tired and wounded by the time he made it to the other side.

For a moment his spirits quailed, for something completely foreign and unknown now stretched before him, and he suddenly felt small and desolate in the darkness--sensations that were, until that point, non-existent to the boy. But he tried to remember Matthew and his songs, and in them he took comfort, which guided his steps toward the road. And under the cool, silver moonlight, Edmund left the warmth and familiarity of the Rose Abbey.

He wandered for several days, meeting all sorts of people along the road as he went, and he befriended them with generous offers of food in exchange for stories and answers to questions that had been burning in him for some time. In the company of travelers of every rank, he learned the best and the worst of humanity, and he rejoiced in their triumph and wept over their pain. And in the little villages he stumbled upon, he saw first hand all the ugliness and misery from which his father had sought to protect him, all of which were tempered by displays of supreme humanity. They were all as Matthew had described in his music, but infinitely more extreme, for Edmund was actually there, observing and absorbing everything.

He saw the privileged few looking resplendent in their finery, protected by their wealth, their houses towering majestically like castles beside the drab and dilapidated homes of their poorer neighbors. While they mingled and laughed and enjoyed wine and fine food, ill-dressed children wandered the streets, many of whom were too young to work but were forced into it. They peddled all sorts of things to travelers and local residents, enduring insults, beatings, and bitter deprivation. There were older folks who looked gaunt and sickly as they worked terribly long hours or simply begged for a day's sustenance from passersby.

He saw lovers, he saw friends, and he saw enemies and rivals. He heard words of love and friendship exchanged, and he heard curses and insults flung back and forth. There was gold here and filth there; there was pride, and there was shame.

The joys, he found, were far more beautiful than he'd hoped, the pain far more wounding--so much so that Edmund eventually couldn't distinguish pleasure from anguish, for they both seared themselves into his mind and his heart in equal measure, leaving him scarred as only a fierce burning would mark its victim. But the boy set out into the world unprepared, armed with little more than a deficient education, and it wasn't long before he began to suffer from his naïve rashness.

He had no money, he had no food, and he had no place to stay. He soon found himself filthy, ill, and hungry, shrinking from the uncertainty of the very world he'd at first sought and taking refuge in the most unlikely places no differently from the young beggars whom he pitied. His thoughts quickly turned back to the calm and the comfort of the beloved abbey that had long protected him from this, and he bitterly lamented his childish ambitions.

Whenever he had the strength, he tried to beg for passage back in the general direction of his home, and people either took pity on him or simply shrugged him off so that his progress was slow and plodding, for those who were willing to carry him back out of charity could only do so for a certain distance. It was by chance that a servant, who was dispatched to purchase supplies for the baron's kitchen, found him walking unevenly by the roadside in the wrong direction, delirious with exhaustion and need, the fever ravaging his body so that Edmund had shrunk to a pitiful size by the time he was found.

"Oh, my poor young master!" the servant cried as he leapt from the cart he was driving. "We've all been searching high and low for you, and your father--alas for him!--has been beside himself with grief."

Weakly, humbly, Edmund allowed himself to be bundled up in a coarse cloak, and he was immediately taken up and driven off, consciousness slowly slipping away as the fever continued to burn. And all his ravaged mind could do before sinking into darkness was to cling to painfully regretful thoughts of Matthew, mostly laced with fervent wishes for his friend to return.

Edmund remained ill for several more days, but he recovered eventually. And once his mind cleared, he could barely remember anything from the day he left the last village to the moment he awoke in his bedroom, terribly weak but no longer burning with a fever. What he did feel was an overwhelming melancholy when he saw his father sitting by his bedside, his hand resting on the boy's damp forehead.

"Good morning," the baron said in his usual gentle, loving tone, and he smiled through his tears, the care and the worry vanishing as his face brightened. "We've much to talk about, Edmund, but all that can wait. We need you to regain your strength."

"I'm so sorry..."

"No, rest, dear boy. Rest."

Edmund rested and soon was completely well. He was thin, a bit sunburned, and scarred from scaling his father's walls, but he was unharmed, otherwise. He devoured trays of food that were brought to him, his father keeping him company, their conversation touching on his adventures and the baron's role in his misfortunes.

The old man watched his son closely, at first terrified of what the world might have done to his child. But then he saw that the signs of care and sadness that now slightly marred Edmund's features imbued the boy with a certain pensive beauty, one that spoke of a deeper wisdom than what he'd long been used to seeing. The smooth brow, the untouched complexion, the calm, gray eyes--all now looked a bit older and more weathered, a great deal wiser, but certainly still youthful in essence. When Edmund spoke, after all, there was no malice in his words; in fact, the boy expressed pity and charity toward those who were less fortunate and revulsion toward those who'd displayed nothing but ill-will toward others. He showed generous approbation toward those who were kind and deserving and expressed a sincere desire to be of service to those who were less fortunate than he.

"I regret," his father said, "forcing you into an unnatural situation, Edmund. Had I been less selfish in my desires, your curiosity wouldn't have been roused to such an extent, and you'd have been spared all this suffering."

"I think I'd have found out about the world sooner or later, Father, regardless of your efforts. Fortune has a way of making sure that we don't grow too comfortable with ourselves, I'm afraid." Edmund smiled ruefully. "That, at least, was what I've learned."

In the summer, while idly walking through the abbey gardens, his nose firmly planted between the pages of a book, Edmund heard a familiar voice humming from somewhere behind the shrubbery. He paused and glanced up, quickly looking around. And sure enough, just off to his right, he spotted a dusty, drooping feather peeking through the leaves, bobbing about in a strange, jarring rhythm, its owner clearly moving through the gravel paths. And with a surge of joy, Edmund closed his book and ran toward his friend, bursting through a small cluster of rose trees and finding Matthew once again in the abbey garden--his clothes a sorry sight, dirt-caked and worn, his hat shapeless and discolored, his brilliant golden curls dulled by long days on the road.

Edmund laughed brightly as he clasped the young man in a warm embrace, unmindful of any breaches in conduct. "You can't run off in a week!" he cried, pulling away and brushing tears from his eyes. "I miss your songs, and I miss your stories, and I can't have you walk away without..."

His words faltered as he looked down and saw that one of Matthew's legs was thickly wrapped with torn fabric around the knee, and his friend was limping, not walking. But the minstrel merely laughed, shrugging as though it was nothing. "You have me at a disadvantage, young master," he replied, "as I was unfortunate enough to meet with an accident in my travels."

"Oh! I'm terribly sorry for it."

"Ah, but I'm now homebound--with your father's leave, thank heaven." Matthew's smile turned slightly devilish, and Edmund blinked, astonished.

"Do you mean to say that you're to stay permanently?"

"Who, me? Stay permanently? No, indeed! Walls can't hold me--don't you remember? I'm here to heal then I'm off for more adventures." The impish smile softened, though, as Matthew regarded the younger boy, and he reached out to thumb away the rest of Edmund's grateful tears. "I always move forward when I travel, never turning around to retrace my steps, but the roads I follow have a way of circling back to where I started. I might leave your abbey in a few days or a few months, but I'll always return, regardless, with more stories and more songs to share. Stability has its virtues, I must confess, for it seems that Fortune wishes me to come back and appreciate them."

"Then I'm all the better for it," Edmund replied happily.

"And so am I."

Edmund offered his shoulder to his injured friend. He led the limping minstrel to a quiet little clearing, and there they spent the rest of the day, lost in stories, lost in songs, and lost to the rest of the world.

(fin)

 


End file.
